


Meet Me in the Orchard by the Pale Moonlight

by framedhim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Animalistic Traits, Biting, Blasphemy, Cum Play, Dub-Con Cutting, Dub-Con Piercings, Knotting, M/M, Rimming, Watersports, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framedhim/pseuds/framedhim





	1. Chapter 1

_**Meet Me in the Orchard by the Pale Moonlight**_  
 **Title** : Meet Me in the Orchard by the Pale Moonlight  
 **Author** : [](http://framedhim.livejournal.com/profile)[**framedhim**](http://framedhim.livejournal.com/)  
 **Beta** : [](http://yahnkehy.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://yahnkehy.livejournal.com/)**yahnkehy**  
 **Pairing** : Dean/Sam  
 **Rating** : NC-17  
 **Disclaimers** : Sam and Dean, their canon universe and Supernatural are the sole property of Kripke, crew, and the CW  
 **Spoilers** : a brief mention of Sam's situation in Season Six; a mention of a known deity found in S2 on thru  
 **Warnings** : barebacking, blasphemy, cum play, dub-con cutting, dub-con piercings, **while I do not see this story as dub-con sex (consent is given in non-verbal cues) some may interpret it as such**, first-time, knotting (not beastiality; animalistic traits & behaviors), rimming, rough/graphic sex, water sports (once - as marking)

 ***Written in second person point of view  
** **Two parts, warnings and spoilers for both  
***Edited. The beginning has been re-vamped since original posting, and in doing so is un-beta'd. Any and all mistakes, oddities, etc. per the entire fic are solely mine.

 ****  
Dean’s driving, concentrating on singing poorly and shoving the remainder of a soggy taco in his mouth.

You’re fixating; fretting over a red sauce stain splotched in the middle of your tie, scritching it with a fingernail. When he looks over to you, he scoffs noisily. “Sam,” and you _hmmm_ a response, too focused.

“It’s eight, heads up.”

He parks the Impala across the street from a tiny brick rancher, no more ordinary than the countless other homes in the vicinity. This job isn’t going to allow for much in the way of remaining undercover, unseen. The home is situated on a well-lit side street, towards the back of a middle-class neighborhood, with not enough space between neighbors. The last pit stop you made, Dean asked the kid working the register for some information on the place, if there was anything unusual to attract tourists or whatever and in return, got nothing but attitude.

The teenager, pimpled faced boy with hair longer than you'd ever dared, had thrown you both a look of disdain; his bitch face - one which you could respect - got Dean in such a tiff, he'd white-knuckled the bag of Doritos in his hand. Hell, the kid was bored out of his mind working long hours, a tedious gig. It didn't stop you either from wanting to smack him upside his head when he came out with, “Nothing to do here, man. This place, it's a black hole in a suburbia of old folks. Even the mosquitoes got AARP.”

You both had rolled your eyes, Dean wearing his _in my day_ face, and that'd been a solid clue to finish with your purchase and head out. You'd laughed quietly, sliding in shotgun, called your brother out on his old man tendencies when he checked the rear view mirror once, twice. He'd retaliated, cranking the volume as high as it could go when Hendrix's "Red House" started. You'd given Dean an obligatory _fuck my life_ moan, let him think he was stepping all over your last nerve while inside, you were happily spacing out to some sweet guitar riffs.

Both your boots vibrated on the Impala's floorboards as Dean had set her straight and fast down RT 147, and you had thought, in his day, Dean was just as disenchanted as any other hormonal adolescent, and then not two seconds later, abruptly shutting down that train of thought. Careening down that mental path always meant some whopping heartache, remembering how he may have screwed around in his day, bitched about there being nothing to do, but at sixteen, Dean had seen more action hunting monsters than others ever did in combat.

Ten minutes further up the road and Dean had pulled into the the post office, the only place in town either of you noticed having more than two cars out front. He'd gotten out of the car first, gave a few swipes of his jeans to rid them of orange cheese dust. "Worth a shot, yeah? We'll splurge, get an envelope," and you'd hummed in response, paused as you tripped over a crack in the pavement. "Living beyond our means, big spender."

It'd been worth it, the smile in his eyes when he turned to look at you, walking up to the tiny building's front entrance, relaxed and slurping up the last of the fountain drink bought at the Quick Stop. Before going in, Dean had chucked his empty plastic cup in the air, nailed the trash can's opening dead center, you quickly following suit, your cup going in only after bouncing off the rim of the can. "Five points, bitch," he'd given you a shoulder check, opened the door before you could reach the brass handle and waved you in. "After you princess."

Instantly, Dean had smoothed out the kinks of his big brother persona and put his best game face on, curled a corner of his lip, eyes crinkling in the way only a few older men could manage. His efforts paid off, drew the attention of the passport photographer, her smiles shy and her lips loose. It had been a spectacle, a scene you'd watched a thousand times, Dean charming strangers into opening up with nothing more than the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Two minutes of small talk and the photographer had confirmed that yes, the area was a calm refuge for exhausted military vets, retired power plant workers, and a few antiquity connoisseurs.

With no one in line waiting, yeah, it'd been that easy. She’d been happy to tell them about the local gossip, let her fingers roam closer to Dean's shirt cuffs, and he smirked as she swiped the tip of her tongue over her glossed lower lip. As far as she was concerned, the reports of female shouting and wild drumming in the peach grove were the tourists’ imaginations gone wild.

She'd gone as far as to say that her momma and her auntie agreed; said they blamed it on one of the damn college sororities from State doing their initiations. She scoffed at the myths, that if a few freaky weather patterns happened, well then, that was nothing more to worry on than old Mother Nature. You nearly choked, stifled a laugh when Dean leaned in closer, her eyelashes fluttering and her speech stuttering. She'd allowed her golden-hued ponytail to fall in her face and told them there was nothing more sinister to the story than stupid hunters. She'd laughed, eyes blinking up to Sam when she said the hunters were actually poachers, idiots who ought to have been paying closer attention to the weather channel.

Not enough information, with time left to kill, you'd followed Dean's swagger out the building, moved on. You'd researched, filed away news articles concerning frequent lightning strikes, seen the autopsy reports on non-local game hunters, poachers, burnt to a crisp. According to a few locals sitting in camping chairs outside the pharmacy, old men in worn denim hanging on for dear life by suspenders, the weather had been right n’ blue. No cloud cover in sight for the last week or so, and all news sites you'd pulled up on the web back this up.

Now your parked conspicuously, a county map sitting in your lap which shows a small body of water that you want to verify only - it’s not visible from the car. Go over the material out loud with Dean as the Impala doors slam and you walk - both of you have your heads on straight about this case, ten to one it’s a female based cult dorking around, calling on some pagan deity. The problem lies with which one, the patterns in this job of mixed sorts and that's dangerous, for you and the women about to be interviewd. The plan is to go in there, rattle a few cages with a show of sane thinking and if necessary, guns. You need to find out if this is a deity or instead, a demon with a god complex, impersonating higher beings.

Dean agrees with your one-off theory, that the bastard deep-frying the bad guys is something perhaps not pagan; something far older coming out to play. Yes, it is unusual considering there aren’t enough locals in this small city to form the size cult the older gods prefer. Dean’s pointed out the area's lack of temples, says, "Loki," with a hoarse cough, face falling in discomfort.

You pick up on his hesitance, shruggingly admit, “It’s not as if minor deities have the luxury to be choosy these days, sure," and look to second check the moon’s position overhead as Dean lifts his watch to re-check the time.

Walking a bit off the driveway, you crane your neck to the side, get a clear sight on the backyard and ah, a lake viewable from the front yard as the moon reflects off the water’s surface. Pay special attention to an herb garden fancying up the place, most of which you instantly recognize as being more than pretty things strewn about.

Beacons here are numerous, offerings and tributes from the homeowner and friends - specifics such as Silver mound, Artemisia schmidtiana, lining the walkway on up towards the front stoop, with it's small, silver-green pom poms gleaming in the dark. Young willow trees adorn the lawn on both sides of the home, another more mature willow in the back sidling up to the lake, grand and crooked.

Wormwood sits on a plant stand by the front door, inconspicuous and innocent in a pottery piece straight out of a Pier 1 catalog although you’re willing to bet tonight’s dinner it's a genuine Neolithic creation.

In the midst of pointing out to Dean the pottery’s image of a goddess you seriously don’t want to cross paths with, the front door swings open. A tall, middle-aged blonde looks Dean straight in the eye and gives you both a shit-eating grin.

“John's boys! Heard you’ve been fishing around town so we've been expecting you,” which is, yeah, not as strange in so much as embarrassing. Incredibly, horribly embarrassing. You've not exactly been the dynamic duo of stealth while traipsing around the city so sure, the group has been expecting hunters. Hell, they probably started gloating when the Impala’s engine revved five streets over.

**********

It’s five minutes inside the house, reading the small group of women’s faces and getting no tells, and you see the moment Dean catches sight of it. No cloud cover to block his view, just stars for miles and the scene out in the backyard is unbelievably serene despite the _wrong wrong wrong_. When Dean got up and headed out you’ve no idea, blinking in confusion of your scattered thoughts as the women show no outward signs of anything amiss.

 _Sam, no harm to you_ , is a chorus of voices, rattles through your brain, and why you're not spouting Latin and bringing this group down a notch has leapt beyond highly disconcerting. A lithe woman motions for you to follow outside, you do which is upsetting, where there is a woman on the lake walking towards Dean, which is worse as you don't recall him leaving.

You want to clarify this vital piece of imagery, lake and walking across, with the brunette standing at your right side, her hovering, protective stance confusing. “Dean,” you shout, and, “is she…what have you done?” whispered after and you're watching the lake’s surface rippling.

The small brunette shows a touch of compassion, “you know this hunter mother, Sam,” and when did you feel it appropriate to carry on a conversation with this woman and why is Dean still standing there, ancient goddess – you know her in the literature sense – walking the surface of the water to get to him.

You’re running, feet molasses, calling as he turns to look at you with the goofiest smile you have ever seen Dean Winchester pull; this does include the time Lindsay ‘breeder hips’ Taluga gave your brother a peck on the cheek just shy of his fourteenth birthday and promised him homemade steak chili and apple pie on his special day.

It’s as hilarious on his features now as it was then, only now there’s imminent danger, as Lindsay’s only superpower was to sway those hips and make boys cry while The Great Mother Goddess - Agdestis, Artini, Lady of the Beasts - coming at Dean is renowned for causing men's deaths. And in all fairness, woman too, this deity soaking up moonlight until she’s luminescent, an equal opportunity kind of goddess with no qualms of putting a female through her paces.

**********

Artemis, fully decked out in smart, modern hiking garb and sporting one amazing pixie hair-do, is in your face and feeling you up. You choke out a, “Chaste, right?” when she squeezes your junk so her followers laugh, bells tinkling in your head, and the cottontail deer straight out of a Disney classic springs over, nibbles at her hemline.

She tsks, chastises you, “as if I were to believe the youngest birthed of Mary to be impotent in the ways of the scholar. Virgin and the idea of belonging to oneself synonymous in my time. No mind to Aphrodite as I’ve no desires of this flesh," another painful squeeze, "...weaponry,” so you sigh into her face. Tall, as tall as you, built lean and muscular through and through. Her adoration and implied meanings flow over you no differently had you stepped in the lake.

**********

Waking from a hypnotic stupor in this moonlit grove isn’t startling. No, that would be effected by the lying naked on a patch of grass with your limp dick flopped over a strange woman’s cheek. So...there’s no proper protocol here, no correct etiquette, and you’d move away quickly were it not for the bare foot of another woman stamping down not two inches from your face. You flinch, enough to hear another peal of bells as the woman kisses your equipment with no hesitation, stands and yawns, joins the others who are doing likewise to your brother.

Dean’s on the opposite side of a flattened grass circle you’ve been lying in, blinking wide-eyed and on defense as soon as he sits up. That, of course, would be the green light Artemis has been waiting for, lightning crackling horizontal across the sky. Dean’s the speed of sound, suddenly beside you and naked except for the goose bumps covering his chest, and this is neither an optimal nor impressive position either of you should be in.

“Oh, the freaky storm is just sooo random,” Dean is nasally, mimics passport girl as though she were a twelve-year old valley girl. Artemis shows her displeasure in a nifty streak of lightening that sizzles overhead, along the grove, lighting up the writhing mass of women dancing, shouting.

  
*********

The hair on your head is damn near standing straight up by the time the goddess squats in front of you. She’s flanked by another woman, dressed in similar garb of khaki shorts and layered tanks, feet in hiking boots. Only Artemis wears a mask, Hecate’s, as white as moonlight and by the time she introduces Britomartis, you and Dean are reverential – not of your own accord are you on your knees in front of them. Those voices, _hunters meet hunter and her good maiden_ , they fill you in as Artemis explains her intent.

An orchard tree sparks, a rabbit flees to safety as the wood splinters perfectly, “I know the woman’s fledglings, saw over your births. I’ve seen your cycles end and stood back to such unnatural occurrences, bade eons go by and here they are, encroachment,” she whispers, her voice loud enough to penetrate your skin and it makes your blood run cold. You and Dean are ineffective.

“I’ll not stand down,” the shouting of the frenzied group intensifies, a wail and the beating of their feet on the packed dirt thunders through you, “the hunt is mine,” coyotes pick up in accompaniment with their crackled barks, laughing, “the unnatural thrown off course in their benefit, the unnatural hunted stay mine.”

**********

So there’s getting back to the car three hours later, the moon hidden behind the horizon when you go to speak, Dean beating you to it, “Sam. We are so screwed. If you say one word, one, I’m going to hit you,” and that is that until you get to Bobby’s.

Six hours later, you’ve very little recollection of what transpired last night, and Dean keeps getting this squint where his eyes narrow, pulling his face taut and thinning his lips. Your skin is too tight across your chest, Bobby inviting you in and saying there’s a name for goddesses who can’t keep their spells to themselves.

**********

Two days later sees you and Dean only remembering the name Artemis, Bobby having enough to go off of with the case file but no other hunters to back-up that they've run into the queen bee. He's at an impasse. It’s breakfast, lunch, dinner, and staying out of Bobby’s way while he writes a mish mash of generic spell reversals. It’s you jumping in your seat every time Dean crosses your path, “Sam, you’re too damn over-sized to be twitching…house ain’t big enough,” and Bobby cusses in response to Dean's admonishment. He's cranky with you both in his space and unable to assist so he grabs a sandwich on his way upstairs - wants to change into something less greasy for the grocers.

Five minutes is what it takes, five minutes of Bobby simply out of your vicinity, and theres a building of static charge crackling through the house. Your legs are suddenly in motion, breathing in small huffs until you still, “Dean,” and he’s there in the junkyard, frozen over the carcass of a Chevy Cavalier.

Bobby’s skipping stairs, has three different tomes bunched in his hand, against his chest, but you can’t hear a word he’s saying as Dean tears into the house. It’s not any one thing you can explain, the sudden desire to raise up to your full height, show Dean just who the hell does he think he is causing chaos. Bobby’s sane, which is a fantastic thing as he bodily blocks Dean. You follow his shocked stare as yes, that is an electrical cord in Dean’s grip and no, he’s probably not looking to plug the den’s t.v. into a kitchen outlet.

Explosive, you are kinetic and suddenly in motion. Run, get him confused, the chase and your feet barely touch the ground.

Darting past, a purposed elbow to Dean’s lip stunning him, on to the kitchen, keys to a functioning Corolla yanked off their hook and in your hands. It _is_ a chase, driving too fast when you feel your throat spasm, your mind reeling. And if Dean’s ringing you on your cell, too bad, as your brother is going to have to work a helluva lot harder than that.

**********

The spell Dean’s been hit with has him chasing you across four county lines, employing every cat and mouse maneuver the old man taught you both. You’re starting to feel better, and yeah, you’re sure that urge to run is a spell but fuck all if you remember the event. Running is becoming a bore; sitting beside the jerk in his car is becoming an imperative. A strong one, as deep-rooted as the urge to run was, and by the time you’re pulled over, random motel Vacancy light gleaming, you’re pacing the parking lot until he finds you.

The first night is quiet, an alcoholic binge that just barely tames the need to fling open the door and take off. On foot. Both of you manage to stay grounded, whiskey and beer keeping you tipsy enough to fall asleep. The next day, the strings start fraying and while Dean’s too good at idle conversation to keep from unraveling, you're one cord shy of stable.

“Hey,” and the car is screaming past a row of upscale restaurants and condos, not a care in the world, “take-out, yeah?” Taking his eyes off the road, once, twice to see your reaction. Telling you, “Sam, I got a pretty decent feeling about the next couple jobs. Know that feeling, s’what you used to…hey, listen up, or I turn on BOC.”

“Jesus, I’m paying attention, Dean. Whatever you want, sure, we’ll take it." It’s rushed, you turning towards him, knee on the seat brushing close to Dean’s thigh and he jerks the steering wheel hard then over-corrects, “Or we can die happy in a fiery auto crash by a gelato joint.”

It’s Chinese take-out with a side of beer tonight, maybe some whiskey. Okay, it’s whiskey shots with a few drops of beer, Dean’s half conked out, and you’re, “T’morrow, Dean. We’ll figure out – stuff. Tired,” punctuating the clank of the decrepit a/c unit as it comforts you to sleep.

Filling up on steaming cups of coffee from the greasy spoon nearby the roach motel you're holing up in is a nice break. Observing Dean eating a raw sausage patty is not. It’s disgusting and by the time you leave the diner an hour and a half later, his belly full with sausage and two bloody cheeseburgers that you insist are still chewing cud, you’re threatening to have him tested for tapeworm.

That afternoon you’re half out the door of the Impala, while Dean’s still driving, and when he hauls you back in by your traitorous jacket you both shout, “Christo.”

There’s kicking, and bodily threats of dismemberment, the Impala wrenched off the road. You want to get out and sprint across the state as long as Dean’s going to chase; instead, you bite your lip bloody and stay. Somehow manage to overpower and hog-tie your brother, ring Bobby for a goddamned clue.

Back at Bobby's, his eyes lidded in disgust at the two of you saying, "Morons," and Dean’s laughing. Dean grins blood as he snips a piece of skin from your neck as you bend over him, tying him to a chair. You tell him how much it hurt in plain English, simple and cursory like, and he jerks his hips up, smirks when you follow the movement down to his groin. Dean’s sporting a raging hard-on, saying some nasty, if not impossible, acts he’d like to do with it - to you - and Bobby throws his hands up.

You’ve gotta go again, now because your blood is singing for the chase, to get the fuck out, and there’s the Corolla out back, flaunting your escape. Dean stops rocking the chair when you grab the keys, says he’ll break free if you step one foot out that door. Dean’s never been good at lying to you and when you do, he does. He is true to his word, twine shreds everywhere as you break the salt line and rip open the back door. Bobby’s showering the room with enough holy water to baptize the entire Southern Hemisphere, points a salt-loaded shotgun in Dean’s direction.

When Dean snatches the gun out of Bobby’s hands, then snaps the barrel in two, you're half expecting him to turn green and hulk out. He doesn’t - but what he does do is shove Bobby so hard the man hits the opposite wall. You're frozen, foot on the back porch, Dean leveling you with a twitching expression of malice, of vulgar promises.

“Now you may run, Sam.”

**********

The first time he truly catches you, where there’s no giving in on your part, it turns into a brotherly spar in every way a Winchester brawl has always been. A wrestling match ensues, Dean opens his mouth and snaps his teeth in your face, surprising even himself, then using it to his advantage to get you down, him on top.

You realize you’re swearing worse than your dad on a bender and your knees are popping when you squeeze with your thighs to flip you both. It works until it doesn’t and the jackass manages to pin you to the stable floor. With your own knife, a pitchfork and perhaps a bucket of rusted garden tools but that’s between you and the grave. You waste ten embarrassing minutes wriggling free from your shirts, time enough so that Dean is long gone, saying it isn't time, flickers of your brother behind a wolf's eyes. You spend another ten explaining to an irate Bobby over the cell why you’re here - in an abandoned barn out in bum fuck nowhere, off Route 17, minus one seriously screwed older brother.

You dry heave, still talking to Bobby that his insane doesn’t begin to touch the crazed filth going on in your head.

You still consider it brotherly fighting on steroids, intensifying as the spell solidifies, Dean’s pupils blown to black when you sucker punch him outside a college deli in Williamsburg, Va. It’s a Friday night when he corners you, with students and tourists packing the street and he barrels straight towards you on the narrow sidewalk like there isn’t a soul around. Dean goes down hard, skin over your knuckles torn from his left cheekbone, tipsy co-eds squealing and flinching away from the violence.

He’s gotta work harder, doesn’t know how bad your bones itch for him to corner you for good, and you’ve no idea what that entails.

The next time Dean stops you in your tracks cannot be classified as anything but non-brotherly. You leave your cookie crumbles for him, out of the state, back in, until he's run you down on the Colonial Parkway - runs your piece of crap rental off the aggregate.

Dean’s lost his mind and you're one-step ahead of him there, talking to yourself through the empty miles, realizing that you’re both quasi-living. You're adrenaline, instinct, and violence. Dean’s attacked more than one civilian getting to you. So you lead him away, wild, because Dean’s many things but monster’s your title and you’ll be damned if Dean’s going to win at this finders keepers, claim it as his own.

All your life seeing each other bare bones and innards, you know precisely how Dean can be stripped of what he claims as higher behaviors. The man keeps his few belongings close. Conceited, perhaps, but you are Dean’s and you know and he knows it and just that simple, you’re allowing Dean to hunt you.

Being caught is unsurprising, your body screams, dick fattening at the thought. It's less surprising as you both tumble to the ground. Only now, Dean’s base self is fueling a higher system of horse power and while you anticipate more of fight, you start violently as he moves up your body. You're between his thighs, on all fours, his leg strength holding you tight as he near sits on you and begins rutting up against your shoulder, wild, frantic. One hand under your chin, finger hooked in your mouth, while he grips the hair on the crown of your head, pulls.

This – this is a new freaking development so your mind pitches a fit and establishes poor logic, states that if you look up it will fix all of this. Dean can’t help this, there's no ample justification, but your bicep is starting to burn from his weight accompanied by the friction of his denim against your own sleeve.

A hesitant look up from your spot on the forest floor, beneath your big brother, reveals gentle, steady pools of pupil. Dean’s forehead is smooth, his mouth set in determination and you know he’s in there somewhere, no angst, no anger, because this is happening. This is why you’ve been running. You want this game to play out and he knows it.

You watch in your peripheral, feel, as his hips grind down on your arm once, twice, and breathes hard out his noise. Spent, Dean hisses at the catch of his dick on his zipper, a damp cum stain seeping through to your sleeve. It’s barely enough moisture to reach your skin, not enough to mark you up.

Dean’s body gives him away - pulse rapid-fire in the veins of his neck. Faces you, grabs the hollows of your cheek, squeezes them in reprimand, “Fuck,” as the ache settles into the muscles there. There’s the metal click of a zipper, he hasn’t even bothered with unbuckling his belt, and everything around you spins.

You know what he needs, neither of you better than a pair of dogs in bodily functions and instinct. You’re decided if he’s going down in this, head first and dying inside, “I understand, man,” you’re going with him this time. Nod your assent and gag when the first bit of piss splashes off your arm and splatters your chin.

Marked, claimed, an instinctual urge satisfied, and Dean twists his head to the side, face illuminated by the outer edges of the Impala’s headlights. You see him sniff in the wind that's rustling through the tree canopy, worry when he bares his teeth at the sound of an approaching vehicle. Feel horrible as he frowns in confusion and twists his head to face you, now standing and ready to tackle him. It takes him three solid jabs.

You’re an idiot, not prepared, head jerking back from the crush of bone connecting and you're sinking to your knees. It's a swift punch to your left side, aiming for the kidney.

Face down, ear to the ground, you watch as his boots walk to the Impala, crimson soaked vision as headlamps from the approaching car blankets your face as it rounds a turn, slows to a creep and stops as Dean is peeling off. You notice the direction, away, he’s getting away from civilization and you sigh with relief through the blood pouring from your nose and into your mouth.

**********

Dean’s playing tag leader, a single step ahead of you, toying with your sensibilities, leaving an actual written note handed off to a cashier at a stop-n-rob. Written on a piece of hamburger wrap foil. The pretty girl with the brown doe eyes, cupie bow lips stained light coral hands it over to you. Auburn hair in pigtails, she pops a mint between her teeth, closes her lips around half and sucks on it as you glance at what Dean has written.

“Sam”

Pigtails eyes your crotch, a tiny slurp, rolls the mint on the tip of her tongue and gives it a suck into her mouth. It’s not that you’re not interested. You usually are, contrary to cock-rock loving assholes, so your dick has a pesky way of showing a keen interest in anything built petite and large breasted. Hell, you’ve been half-hard since walking in the place, spying tiny budded nipples erect and pointing forward through the tank top as she stretched, explained seeing the hot guy with the freckles.

She states she doesn’t go for the junkies, scratching a button nose with a manicured fingernail, “…cause he’s one, you know that, right? My type’s healthier, less Michael meets Van Gogh more Adonis,” causing you a quick snort, utter an “okay, I’m…yeah.”

You fold the wrapper and shove it in your pant's pocket, head out to leave and she shrugs, turns. Get yourself a freebie noticing her ample bubbled ass bound tight in khaki shorts, saving the image for rubbing one out in the car, understanding it's the spell making you horny, less talking involved and what the hell, you’ve got napkins. You walk out, concrete fairly pristine thanks to the kitty litter housed in containers all along the property. Swipe your hand down your shirt, no one around and the cashier can’t see so you adjust and tuck your junk.

Climb into the car and unzip once you’ve rounded a nasty curve, shaft solid steel, obscene against the steering wheel, against your shirt. You pull that up, not stopping to strip and edge, press hard against the glans, knees holding the steering wheel long enough to get yourself situated. It's slow, methodical, balls tight and you're cussing out your lack of preparedness, your family’s constant involvement in getting whammied by djinn and witches and whatever else the fuck wants to string you both like puppets. The anger stirs you up; thighs straining your pants as you grunt, jerk-off quicker.

Release is so close, about to come undone when you spot her, the Impala sitting off to the side of a boat launch, none of the locals paying her a bit of mind. No mind as they're more concerned in getting out on the river to get their fishing on. Dean's out there, waiting, a new twist to the chase. You cum as an afterthought, hot splash against your stomach and in your navel; surprising yourself when you let loose a loud string of nonverbal noises, Dean's name, your ass grinding into the seat, riding out residual after jolts. There’s just enough presence of mind to ease the vehicle in beside Dean’s baby, wipe your hand off on spare napkins stashed in the glove compartment and zip up.

The locals pay you no mind as you step out and head over to the Impala’s driver side. In fact, they’re already buzzing down the James, fishing poles and libations at the ready. You look across the river, spotting dense woods on the horizon, a rippling current causing some serious choppy waters between the shores.

No two ways about it, Dean wouldn’t swim across; feral or not, your brother’s not an idiot. Catching that current would’ve carried his body downstream god knows where, not optimal with the Impala being here, and that’s only if he wasn’t snagged under by sunken trees. No, Dean wouldn’t swim but then he wouldn’t have stayed here either. Too much traffic along the riverfront, a chance for stragglers, whereas out there, he could stay away until you found him or the spell wore off. Or he died from starvation, injury, the spell going wonky. Shit.

You drive a little further down the road, a rental place in mind, has to be one along these roads and within the next two hours, you’ve rented a small johnboat of your own. There’s a stash of peanut M&M’s for Dean, a large sub sandwich for you both, and a stash of bottled water on the seat next to you as you launch yourself onto the river.

You’re not fool enough to just go out and explore, the owner of the rental shop growing up on these waters, having seen your brother earlier, rented to him as well, “Ya’ll aren’t up to fighting out there, cause I don’t wanna send a search party out. Waste a ton of taxpayers money using local EMS on some men not wantin' to be found,” and you nod. Tell him your brother has been planning this trip solo and you’re worried, does he have a map of the James and her beaches and such where his brother might camp out. The man nods, double chin and all.

So when you do happen to see the johnboat, you know Dean’s not even trying to hide from you, keeping the vessel right there off the fourth alcove you’ve come across on your journey. It seems too easy, as if someone could’ve seen him and found him but you’re actively looking and the alcove is recessed and thank god, or whatever, there’s only one boat pulled up on shore. Two as you pull yours beside his.

You see him, it’s not as if he’s some illusive feral so that your training is useless. See, the thing is, your training is useless. When he sneers, stands up lazily from a crouch, he means business, so you widen your stance. This is ridiculous; you’re so going to knock his ass out, pills to sedate him in your pocket. Heavy dosages, can’t chance him waking up in a boat, the both of you mid-river.

What happens is you don’t anticipate a fucking booby trap until his sneer disappears and the circle of twine you’ve stepped into springs up, closes around your ankle.

You fall, a crack. Then…nothingness.

  
**********


	2. Part Two

Part Two

*Same warnings from Part One apply

 

There it is, a needling twinge swerving through your unconscious mind, a sense of urgency you’re not able to ignore, calling you up. Garbled voice around you, nonsensical, you’re flailing through blackness. There’s a reason you should be alert, an important one, and that is as far from you now as the surface of consciousness.

……………….smmmmmmm………..

…..don…….li.tn………sa….

……….asl…..sam…………

…………………………….sam………………..

Sam.

It’s hair trigger quick, a switch flipped – you were knocked out and now, you’re not. The nausea you anticipate hits dead center with a circling, roiling cramp through your gut, and not helping the situation is the sickening squish sensation of sand and mud beneath your fingers. You’ve no clue how long you were unconscious as there’s no telltale sunlight filtering past your eyelids.

Best guess, it’s hours past when you first arrived, but the sweltering heat and humidity hanging roughly in the air doesn’t offer up any hints as it’s just as disgusting now. You’re not able to tell the hour without opening your eyes, and that’s going to prove difficult judging by the pulsating throb of your right one.

A live wire, your body wrought with muscular aches and a series of sharp jolts across your back brought about by the fall you took. There’s a branch trapped somewhere under your legs, shifting – it’s wedged tight beneath your left calf, rough and digging into the skin. Moving it, moving period, is imperative though; it’s not a need, not a want, it’s a must-do-it-now as you hear movement off a ways behind your head.

There’s a recognized casual pace, footfalls light then deep, then quieting. All is still barring the background abundance of crickets chirping, thousands of toads croaking, an owl making it’s nightly conversation and all kicking up a racket in the woods, covering up the nuances of your brother’s stalking.

You keep the panic in check, allowing the hunt to kick in, letting you channel enough adrenaline to note what body parts of yours are broken, barely usable, or functioning. Fingers, toes, neck, limbs all singing with sensations. And, of course, you're undressed, exposed in all the ways that matter.

A residual base urge to escape folds and tucks around your body as nothing else registers around you until…there, right there, that was a step, shells in the sand snapping under a single footstep. Breathing whatever it is, your big brother is not an it, coming towards you, crawling now. Steady intakes of air and considering what you must look like, scores of predators would suck in shallower gasps when spotting such easy prey.

Pricking, sharp, needle-like pain explodes on your exposed sac, stupid mosquito showing no mercy while your nose crinkles in revulsion; feeling of river sludge oozing between your asscrack. The mud mushes between your cheeks as you squirm from the itch on your balls. You’d like to kick your own ass as that movie, the one with the boy in the river with leeches in his tighty whites, plays out in your head. Damn, but you were ribbed for days on end, Dean teasing as the three of you waded waist deep in swamp a mere week after watching the stupid thing. Leeches, fuck fuck fuck, as the sandy silt is now kissing your asshole.

You clench your cheeks together, tightly, pushing memories back to stay rational, staving off a decent panic attack, which who knows how it could set Dean off in an untold number of ways.

A sputtered splash comes from the river, and just – wow, you are exceptionally close to the water. Time’s up, no more to gather your thoughts, assess your condition as something, Dean, shuffles up against you. Fingertips, tacky with blood if the copper smell is anything to go by – four of them scuffle across your head and then a thumb, all move quickly to fist through your hair.

A jarring twist of those fingers gathers up a decent-sized chunk, yanking your head back so forcefully the sand beneath you tears into your scalp. You choke back spittle and gag on bile, all going down the wrong way at this strange an angle, the burn of hair giving, follicles ripped free to light a path of heat across your scalp. This position, you can barely swallow, skin of your neck stretched taut, Adam’s apple bulged and pointed skyward.

Another pull, left, then right, backwards at a sharper angle – fuck you can’t breathe; pulse throbbing in the veins along your neck, an angle suddenly too difficult to maintain without your back arching up off the sand. Your eye snaps open on yet another twist of Dean’s wrist, one turn shy of tearing free again. A gorgeous night sky greets your vision, not a touch of cloud cover in sight, the constellation Orion familiar, a beacon shining down as Dean’s calloused hand snakes in between your naked thighs, cups and tugs on your genitals.

Wrench, the word is wrench - tug being too loose an interpretation of what Dean is doing down there, pulling a startled gasp from your throat. Your confusion won’t help you in the least, so you equal his move, wrench back the emotion and focus on him. Dean’s not intimidated, he’s predator, squat over you, eyes a milky yellow, pupils narrowing. This is beyond, just, beyond. This is…this is you and Dean totally fucked.

“Sam”

Dean’s eyes rove down your chest, a longer fingernail, chipped, scrapes away at a spot near your eyes.

Feral, a case gone wrong, hunt gone south, Dean is feral, you tracked him and here you are. That is mud caking his fingers, the sticky residue clinging to exposed skin as his free hand releases your prick and shifts upwards from your crotch, your stomach tingling as he traces through the line of hair and creating goose bumps on up your chest. You feel the hand lift, taste buds exploding with mud and ah, there it is, blood, as he parts your lips with a thick finger. You finally manage both eyes open to see him cock his head, eyes narrow into thin slits.

“Sam”

A tiny spray of Dean’s spit lands on your cheek, x marks the spot on what must be a paper-thin cut below your eye and you wince. It stirs him, the shiver you produce, and you just barely make out the fist raised in the air. Whoosh and whittle of sound as he drops his arm.

Then…nothingness.

**********

You’ve lost track, day and night, it’s been a solid amount of time you’re sure, nor more than four days. You know he’s fed you, the roasted fish he shoves into your mouth, lifting your head to get you to swallow. He pets you, as you count the times, the sequences of his actions and reactions to yours. He maintains your life, and no one’s saying he’s doing it kindly.

Dean’s a whirlwind of emotions and physical trials, slamming you violently into darkness, raising you ungracefully into bright awareness, and you finally take a hint at his game strategy.

Sensory deprivation, a lesson in, maybe is what he’s working on. Whether he’s too far gone to rationalize it, Dean’s actions train you to be observant to his whims. You block out all other stimuli as the sun rises, falls, a cycle as the moon shines down on the murky river beside you. A few luxuries exist in your compact world. For instance, you enjoy the soft lapping of the water against the tiny alcove’s shore as he grunts, digs to clean your mess of waste and excrement filled sand. He wipes your brow, wipes your ass with leaves.

You make to move, he’s not beaten you to a pulp, your arms hard-wired for movement. Ready. You mean to move and he shoves more fish in your mouth. Each time you begin to run, it adds to the fog and the sense of losing time and then…nothingness.

You wake groggily, knowing he’s been lacing the fish with the damn sedatives you brought for him and how is that thinking with only a brain stem? No time, you spot him, fiddle with the shark tooth you dug up earlier as he prepares a weapon of sorts. A broken piece of clamshell, one you watch him quickly whittle into a fine needle, heat over a small fire he’s started from the litter of maple and Norfolk pine branches around you both.

Your smart aleck, good for nothing mind diligently supplies the reasoning for the heating just as Dean deftly punctures through the tough tissue of your nipple. The shark tooth’s serrated edge slices along your finger as Dean grips the bleeding nub between his thumb and forefinger. No time to whimper as he re-heats the shell, unceremoniously punctures through your other nipple.

Falling asleep is not an issue – you’re worn out from the pain, the drugs.

You wake the sixth time screaming, your neck tensed, spasming. You choke violently, silently, into a cloth gag until you’re hoarse, all as the crafted shell is used to pierce thin flaps of skin along the underside of your dick. Dean’s knee props your thigh up and widens you, exposing you in ways your brother has never seen. No time, none, as his wrist keeps your sac lifted, and he pinches up the skin between your crotch and asshole.

You’ll die, the vomit is going to drown you as he shoves the shell roughly, pierces a new hole in your taint. Your hands, previously unbound, no need to restrain you when you could barely lift your fingers, they’re now tied together – wrists restrained in twine.

Writhing, as Dean lifts, pinches against the newly pierced tissue, inserts something foreign down there. Wide, heavy and you’ve no idea what he’s put into the piercing, both eyes rolling back in your head, nothing more than bright sphere of agony as his finger presses inward on the object, as his thumb dryly breaches your ass.

He won’t untie you, just re-heats the bloody shell, straddles your hips. He’s careful to place your cock between your body and his, pressure on the objects he’s placed in your shaft’s piercings causing you to twitch. Dean stops, quiets you with nudges and tries to still you, his forearm against your forehead, “Stay,” and off in the distance you can just make out skittering through the trees. The less movement the better, okay, assuming this is a reward as he nuzzles your nose with the tip of his, catches your top lip and bites, bleeds, and he licks it.

When the first cut happens, you don’t expect it, placated by the violent oddity of your brother’s behavior, his hips doing things on your hips that ought not make you pant.

But you do, fuck, you follow him down.

When the first cut slices deep and thin, shit shit shit, you pant out of fear. Dean’s body is solid steel holding you down and he is…he is not stopping. You focus on which protection symbols he carves with flourished strokes across your torso, blood welling swiftly, your legs lifting enough to strike out, trying to make him stop that. He slices into you feminine symbols of power and fertility, imaged phases of the moon, warrior runes, then a liquid heat and scorching as he rubs his cum into the wounds.

A seventh time waking, you vomit pure bile, Dean pulling you up off the ground to keep you from aspirating it, holding you by the waist as the sour fluid trickles down your chin. It tastes odd, foul and ensures you’re fully awake. No matter, you have no energy, all your muscles loose and wobbly things from blood loss.

Dean’s naked behind you; you know this much as you stand for the first time in how long? You huff in non-amusement, casually observe ripples in the water, fish nibbling at water beetles on the river’s surface as the moon reflects across the waterway.

You understand now your body’s symptoms, its inability before to perform as a capable hunter. The drugs leave your system; you can smell the chemical scent of them thick in your urine as he holds his hand over yours. You both clutch your limp shaft as you piss, your mind soaring and free of the crushing lethargy. Mentally note the damage - Dean has beaten you, sliced runes from head to toe, jacked you off only to use your release as lube, cramming a finger or two inside your ass, bled and marked you.

He drugged you to make the pain tolerable, all solace in unconsciousness, fed you, cleaned you, and kissed you gently after the pain became a bearable nuisance. He kept you both from doing this dance where either of you could end up hurting a civilian. You followed him here of your own volition and you are just as accountable for his actions.

You screamed but not once, in all the time he’s held you here, have you begged him to stop. You know there’s more, no inkling as to what the curse has in store for the two of you but you absolutely will not lay more burdens on your brother’s shoulders. There is no knowing, no cure, the two of you on a collision course and when you both step off this tiny beach, you will be damned if it destroys either of you.

Standing, naked, oozing wounds that are not rancid as he’s swabbed and cauterized them, you sigh and lean back into him. His lips curl and expose his top row of teeth when the back of your thighs touch his. There’s been no internal anguish in his previous actions, his pupils are slits, milky yellow now a sharp gold and you still see him in there, aware. Likewise, there is nothing soft, hesitant in your own as you turn with sharper vision to look over the round of your shoulder, down the inch or two into his face.

You lock eyes with him, maybe not him, enough of Dean to see he has no qualms in doing this without consent. You take stock of the years you spent drifting apart, the anger, the hostility, and this has been a lifetime or two coming. Unspoken and wrong, neither you nor your brother should be this, shouldn’t want permission to carry on with this. So neither of you ask, it’s his.

You’ve never let anyone in; virgin, it doesn’t matter and you won’t cry out.

“Dean.”

You whine petulantly, a child’s noise that’s ridiculous and you couldn't care. It’s time he takes what’s his.

Dean responds in kind, spit shine white teeth chewing through the grimed skin on your neck. It is enough to cause you to hiss, fills your dick out fatly, his tongue swiping across raw, exposed muscle. Your feet are bare, all high arches and callous coarse heels dig into the sand when he bites down thoroughly. Your toes itch, prickle and spark your nerves as red ants, fire ants, skitter across the tiny brown hairs there. Heat shoots through you in tiny nips, bitty tastes.

Distractions.

Your chest displays patchworks of bruises he’s letting heal, additional welts in shades of indigo and purple admired with his fingertips. You are impossible aches of pressure points, can’t ignore the feel along the mottled edges and you think…if you ask him to hit you harder, beg him to punish, you’ll admire them longer.

Knifed lacerations form Latin keynotes spoken only by a Hell’s most astute. Sliced right there between your pecs. They’ll remain as souvenirs and mementos of time served, a common bond – it’s true, the frozen state in the pit, how it’s negative fuck all below zero even as your skin bubbles in the flames; your flesh melting off just as his did.

Stocky thighs, corded ropes of muscle strain as you’re shifting, one foot and back on towards the other foot, a dance you know well.

Patience.

Impatience.

The tiny campfire’s flames lick higher in the sky, red-orange crisps singe the blonde hairs along your hobbled knees. Move, shift, yelp with acute pain, concentrate on the stretch of your lips pulling into an arthritic suffered grin as you widen your stance. Spinning and disorienting you once more and now that you’re here, facing out towards the dense forest protecting the shore, you can smell something other than pungent wood.

Sex, salt, sweat.

Smell, he always did ask that of you, courtesy sniffs and brotherly rubs of sweat-soaked armpit hair. Deodorant clumped tufts of it streaking hot, clogging up your nostrils with nothing but …a clue you'd overlooked, ignored. Seems maybe he’d been marking you all along so then - fuck if this is any different. You’re twenty some odd pounds and a measly three inches of tower over him and it doesn’t count for shit when you’ve been claimed as territory before either of you knew what to make of each other.

You’ve given him your sight, doesn’t matter as all you’ve seen since the world rushed violently towards you from between your Mary’s thighs was him. Birth, blood and comfort against his Mary’s breast, hard nub rubbed against your gums all you could see and feel. That is until there was sweet liquid and the fuzzy near-sighted sight of the other him, not your him. You cried because there was no him, the one who would own the images as finally your eyes hazed and melted into pools of salt and then there was him right against your Mary’s other breast. Right there, your black and white vision filled with him, his lips right near yours and suck, suck, sucking and no more liquid eyes. No time for that as he’d stolen your vision from that moment on.

It’s sound, the next sense you willingly handed out on tarnished platters. Listen out for him, pay attention to him, only him, and always hear him. Always, him, without question, him, answer him, not talk to him, “…you’re not a baby anymore, Sammy.” You’re stubborn next and you hear it a million times so you don’t make too many sounds of protest against him just so he won’t have to hear the sounds. Make believe. Fuck, you’d know the rules as you’d heard him, no understanding, in his and your Mary’s womb.

Taste – not even a jump of muscle when he leans in to take this from you. This is new, this sense to give him and you moan like a five-dollar whore when he sucks your tongue in his mouth, no finesse. He’s unmoving, muscles locked in comparison to your fluidity, brings your hand to his mouth. You feed him your fingers; let him take the taste of your skin, sop the digits sloppy with spit. Dean unlocks, knee pushing between your legs and he nails it, your taint, dead on. It topples you, hands and knees on the beach. His intentions are not a mystery, nothing to guess when he moves in front of you and sinks, ass in your face. Your gut tightens when he grunts, grabs your hand and sinks your fingers three knuckles deep.

So you do what any self-respecting man would do – or not, the etiquette fails you but you go with it; eat him out, tongue so far up past his rim you give up knowing any other taste. Mouthing and licking between the vee of your salty fingers, pry him apart, walls of his ass smoother than what you expected. He clenches down, squeezes your tongue and the taste is dark, not something you’d say is pleasant but it gets his arm-twisting. His dick hangs down, so he fists it, you can’t see but you know it looks like he’s milking it, the wiry hair around his hole brushing up across your face distracting you.

There’s a squelch when he pulls off your tongue, drool down your chin and it’s leaking out his ass. You don’t know, this is…you don’t know. You’ve never been with a human male before, the cage and demons do not count, and fuck if this doesn’t make that seem run-of-the-mill. Obviously it meets a need, his jaw’s tight, foreign pupils shocking when he looks down on you. You lose sight of him as he moves behind you.

“Sam”

Sex is going to be rough, his hands steady and you know he knows he’s lucid enough to give you an abrupt three-finger salute up your backside; it punches out a breath, the drag of his skin too dry against the lining of your inner walls. Behind you, squatting, with all his attention on getting into your too dry, too tight, Dean’s cock dribbles out drops of pre-cum onto the beach.

Waiting for the push is frying your nerves, “Dean, don’t set up camp…ungh,” you’re cut off, a long groan as he tugs his fingers out unceremoniously, cock instantly replacing them in one nasty drive forward. Rough, Dean doesn’t pause to let you catch your breath – simply jerks back, both his hands on your hips, fingers digging, anchoring into the skin and muscle. You can’t catch your breath long enough to whip your head around so your position is head down on forearms, knees sinking into the sand. You know he’s still squatting until he’s not and you are definitely not – ass yanked up, hanging off his dick, you’re hunched over with your fingertips still touching beach.

Rough, Dean’s feet kick yours apart on another thrust forward, sweat from his abs slicking the hair on your ass. You’re disgustingly filthy with grime, and all you are is the pain radiating outwards from your hole. Friction burn as he manages to catch your rim on each pass, stuffed too quickly. You’re a series of moans and still you don’t beg him to discontinue. The friction eases with the heat of liquid – if you’re not bleeding then you’re dead and this is some sick, fucked-up afterlife where you’ve happily decided to hang your hat. And if that’s the case, you know you’ll be meeting up with dad. Then the three of you can have a sit-down over that one time, in VA, when you couldn’t fix your brother and you let him see up close and personal just how big a slut you are for pain. Good times.

Dean lets loose your right hip to reach under your leg with his forearm, fingers finding purchase in the crease of inner thigh and groin, and hefts your thigh up towards his waist. If you weren’t a pathetic mess before, you are now, your dick a steel pipe bobbing with each punishing jab. You try to think if the small spark of interest from somewhere inside is your prostate, and a surprisingly slow swipe confirms that yes, that part does indeed function. Only, the fireworks all your college boys, all those hunters on alcoholic binges, whisper about – not so grand. Sure, it’s going to get you there – Dean’s nailing that spot with each punch in, but it is not his intent. He’s gone, beyond needing you as anything other than a hole at this point, his only concern is getting his.

You fight back the thought that this, this is what’s turning your crank, has you shaking like an overgrown bitch in heat. This mental jerk-off is going to send you into stratosphere, and your acceptance of this fact has your dick turning a scary shade of red and dripping, sloppy wet.

He can read minds, no two ways about it, as the fingers of Dean’s left hand slip free. He wraps his left forearm just like the right, around your other thigh, hefts that up as well. Goddamn but you are glad there are only insects and fish around because being the wheelbarrow to Dean’s power top is a bit more emasculating than you can handle.

This angle has you face down against the grit, arms wobbling to keep your top half up as you catch sight of your own length between your legs, slapping against Dean’s thighs. An unexpected buzz off in the distance, sound of a boat motoring down the river and your nostrils flare with the campfire smoke wafting your way.

Two thrusts, Dean’s arms start to tremble and all you can hear now are his heavy inhales and exhales. On the third thrust you swear, “no, what is - Dean, the hell is...,” can’t finish your sentence as your brother’s length swells on the outer flesh of your rim.

Not only is this not a subject in any health ed. book you ever read, ever, but this is also not in any of the preliminary files you’d researched on the victims. It’s safe to say you’ve gone from getting off to getting scared and you’re surprisingly okay with being a chicken shit seeing as if Dean’s going to go full-on furry, you’d rather it not be while his cock’s lodged somewhere up near your stomach.

You’re going to tap out now while the swelling is still subtle, thank you, “Dean…you gotta stop, just think about this for a minute,” is all you can manage. Dean’s changed his motions, grinding, punctuated thrusts and you send a silent prayer that whatever spruced you both up with canine physicalities stopped with you being a true bitch.

There are limits, that is one of ‘em, and you’d better not feel a paw because so help you god.

Your top hasn’t gotten any of this particular memo, and no means no and Dean’s half-gone and yes, Virginia, there is a difference between rape and stating a consent and really, truly you’re the latter. Nervous for the future of your hole’s elasticity, your dignity, but consenting.

You try not to lock up, try your hardest to relax the lower portion of your body but the position you’re being thoroughly fucked in makes that region tight on principle. Your hips, thighs, abs are already quivering when the swelling increases, nudges into you, and Christ, if you don’t get Dean’s knot in your ass now, you’ll be needing stitches after all’s said and done. Channel all your strength, “harder, jerk, can’t tie me right if you don’t shove,” flexing your backside, grinding back as good as he gives. It works, and maybe you’re an idiot as the knot your brother’s cursed with is huge - foreign - and not perfectly round. It’s bumpy and expanding.

Four swirls, twenty seconds of nothing but fingers sliding through sweat, ten more seconds of you stilling, flexing, exhaling and opening up to him, and the only sound is the blood pounding in your ears and Dean’s streaming litany of grunts, puffs of hot air forced out every time his knot stretches the rim of hole thinner. You open your mouth, expecting god knows what to come out because your brain isn’t supplying anything coherent, as Dean finally takes your advice, rams forward. There’s a moment when you can’t - it’s too bright is what the pain is, it’s splitting you in half and then there’s an extremely loud pop and he’s in, it’s in.

Which, of course, is when Dean drops to his knees, sand giving in and he’s still cradling your thighs and groin only now your chest is flat on the ground. If you could, you’d move your arms but they’re too spent, not meant for your weight. Right as the first granules of wet sand start to sting your wounds, Dean spasms and warmth floods your intestines. You’re a bag of bones when he pulls back, sneezes, one hand pressing down hard on the dimple above your cheeks, the other snaking between, feeling out the thinned muscle, circling the rim and tapping the knot inside you as he pulls it back.

If you could scream, if your voice was anything but a hoarse whisper, you would wake the dead. As soon as he finishes this end of the cycle, swelling then liquid heat, he picks up the beat. Staccato, Dean's drumming against the bulge of knot expanding your taint until you’re mad with it. His free hand traces a path, gentle, down a thigh, soothing you without saying a word.

You know beyond a shadow of doubt it will be the only light touch you see tonight.

It’s odd when your bum, raised in his lap as he’s resting on his haunches, is maneuvered so your thighs bracketing his waist are situated for stability. It’s unexpected, a firm forearm coming under your throat and the other wrapped around your midsection. You startle as you’re lifted off the sand in this manner, manhandled as Dean’s never done with you before. It’s quick and efficient, your ass stinging no less than when you were chest down only now you’re forced tightly back against his chest with one arm while the other flexes against your neck.

The sight is obscene, no need for a mirror or a reflection off the moonlit water to know this much, and to further bring home the point, your mind supplies the image of a cover to a bodice ripper.

This angle, Dean’s only choice of movement is grinding up, as he demonstrates well and he slaps his hand extremely hard against your lower abs. Before you can even think to complain, his fingers find your prick and begin a sloppy pull, thumbing over the glans and wiping away any grit from your surroundings. Your head falls back, the pained sensation of the piercings excruciating and confusing against the pleasured bumps against your prostate. By the time you start babbling poetic odes of love to the jerk pumping another load in you, Dean decides he’s had enough harmony, fists your dick and twists.

The upside to the mistreatment of a favorite body part is the instant drool response your dick now gives; the downside is there are always worse things that can happen. Dean lifts you up, his dick not easing out but merely making your taint a tortured ocean of nerve endings. Slamming you back down into his lap, “wait wait wait, I don’t know what you want from me,” Dean forces you to come face to face with being the bitch in this relationship. You will take what he plans to dole out and there is no waiting. Your body registers the thin membrane, the mystery objects of doom decorating your groin area.

You do not expect to cum, but you do and it’s…terrifying. Dean’s pulling out entirely too soon, half the knot gives a pop, the rest stuck. Your hips jerk as he yanks free, rim gaping and you jolt so harshly through your finish, Dean’s lifting your head with concern. Until he sniffs out your release and his features relax, letting your head and body drop unassisted to the ground.

Feral Dean is a bastard. A mean son of a bitch, the correct answer to all your emotionally stunted, twisted needs and you are both so very screwed.

**********

Heading west, answers are needed but neither of you say a word, yet. Both your minds are starting to come around, memories of that night in the grove waking one or the other of you, tangled up in each other during sleep. Dean’s eyes take longer to return to normal after bouts of fucking, and his knot doesn’t decrease in size. You're wound tight; he takes care of his bitch and you reciprocate.

Going to Bobby’s, an apology, your head splits with the thought of the two of you hurting him, freaking him out. Only the old codger doesn’t want to hear it, know it, speak of it. No apologies, just to get your dumb hides back to his house. Going to Bobby’s, you find out that certain goddesses are harder to track down than angels and demons combined. Not knowing how long it’ll take to pin her location, get the reversal.

**********

Artemis hitches a ride with you and Dean somewhere around Pearl River, LA, where there’s nothing to look at but trees and swamp and bugs the size of small birds. She’s wearing aviators and a blue and yellow bandana and scares the living shit out of you both when she pops into the backseat of the Impala and leans over the front seat.

You don’t move a muscle - let her toy with the back of your neck. Let her finger a bruised indent at the base while you stare at the cracks in the highway.

“Collared, wild still - as you like him this way and that…mmm, that’s pleasing.”

You shift uneasily in your seat as the heat from the being’s fingers seeps into your skin, see Dean lift his sunglasses to reveal golden eyes and narrowed slits and he only ever does that outside of fucking you when he’s furious.

Your vision doesn’t change yellow but you laugh with all your breathe when Dean tells the deity in the back she can take her Yoda wannabe speak and her roaming hands and get bent because he makes the house rules in this car. It’s a fairly bold move considering who it is he’s cussing out but you both crave some normalcy even if it’s to get rid of the freaky eyes.

Artemis drifts her hands to Dean’s neck, toys with the fine hairs on the back until he growls at her, swats her touches away. When she vanishes, you curse, no closer to figuring out what it will take to flip your worlds into the correct positions.

You’ll find her or she you, hunt the hunter, but for now, Dean drives.


End file.
